


Slight Misinformation

by Skalidra



Series: Earth-3 Storyline [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Broken Bones, Earth-3, Gen, Mirror Universe, Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9693350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: When Slade Wilson is elected President, and starts implementing harsher ways to handle the 'supervillains' of the world (including public support of the heroes), Owlman quickly decides that they need to set a few things straight with this new regime. So he sends Nightingale, to make sure President Wilson gets the message.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firefright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/gifts).



> So, this is a gift for my friend, Firefright. Happy early birthday, dear! XD It's not quite Sladin, but I hope you enjoy anyway!

It's not nearly as difficult to sneak in as Dick thought it might be, honestly. The security is good, top-notch systems installed by Luthor upon the inauguration of their new president and the new, more aggressive policies he began to instate. Among them, true focus upon the 'supervillain' community and public, governmental support of the 'heroes' set against them. It's made him quite a target, thus the security systems and checkpoints.

Very useful, if he was someone else and he had less support behind him. Owl tech isn't that far shy of Luthor's, and Bruce has spent months figuring out exactly how to get in here. It wasn't difficult, really, for Bruce to get an invitation into the White House. Not with such a powerhouse of a company beneath him and their new president looking so desperately for allies in his new crusade.

A little genius work from Bruce, combined with an exact memorization of the patrols and guards stationed throughout the place, and here he is. Sitting on the foot of the presidential bed, waiting for his target to finish work for the night and come in. Two rooms away, through soundproof walls and half a dozen of the Secret Service, the president's two younger children are already asleep in their rooms. He took a peek before coming in here, just to lay down some collateral. His wife, on the other hand, is halfway across the country on a political visit to some troublesome senators, which means that this will be a private meeting.

Precisely what he wants.

It's approaching three A.M. when the door finally opens, and he stays utterly still at the foot of the bed as his target comes in and shuts it again behind him. Already shrugging out of his suit jacket, which means that when his gaze lifts to scan the room, and Dick is spotted, his arms are trapped in the fabric for a crucial second. That single blue eye widens, breath drawing in, and Dick quickly holds a single finger to his lips as he smiles, lifting the other hand to show the tablet held in it. The one with its live stream of the two sleeping kids.

"President Wilson," he greets, keeping his voice low. It's for show; there are guards a corridor away but the rooms are all soundproofed individually and no one will hear them unless one of them is truly _screaming_.

The suit jacket drops to the floor, that single blue eye darting its gaze towards the tablet and then narrowing in sharp _anger_. "What have you done?" is the instant demand. His voice is low and rough, though not the equal of Bruce's business voice. "If you've hurt them I swear to _God_ —”

"I haven't," he denies, sliding up off the bed and tossing the tablet, underhanded, to the president. It's caught smoothly; battle reflexes kicking in and showcasing that their new president is much more than a simple politician. "I'm here to talk business, _Slade_. Just a few points to be made, a little negotiating… A small show of good faith, if that's how you want to see it."

"Good faith?" Slade's voice is somewhere between disbelieving and still angry, even as the tablet is dropped down on top of the suit jacket. "You're a long way from Gotham, Nightingale. I can shut this place down with a _word_."

"And trap me in here with your kids?" he points out, circling to the side, to slide his gloved fingers over the top of furniture as he holds his smile. "You don't really think I came in here without at least a dozen exit plans, do you? Your Secret Service are good, but not good enough to stop me. What are those guns they're carrying; Luthor's? Good design, _if_ they can hit." He leans into a dresser, close enough now that he can appreciate the height Slade has on him. Taller even than _Bruce_. "Want to play the odds, President Wilson?"

There's a moment of silence, and then Slade shifts, gaze flicking down his frame and lingering, for a moment, on the obvious blades strapped to his thighs. "What do you want?"

"That's better," he praises, and Slade's mouth curls into a small sneer, teeth baring. "That—” he flicks one hand towards the tablet, now on the ground, "—is just to let you know that we _can_ get in here. You can put whatever security you want in here, pay Luthor however many _millions_ he needs to come up with new versions, but we will always get in. I could have slit their throats in their sleep, and I could have gutted you when you walked in that door; luckily for you, we're not interested in having you dead quite yet."

"Why's that?" Slade growls, moving further into the room, continuing to face him.

He gives a rolling shrug, a crooked smile. "You're good for morale, Slade. The people like you. We're not interested in making you a martyr just yet; take it as a compliment." He sharpens his smile, and adds, "And stop heading for your weapons; I swept the room while I was waiting, your guns are unloaded and your blades are re-hidden. You can find them again later."

He can see Slade's teeth grind together, but he does stop moving, leaning into one of the posts of the bed. There's a moment of consideration, a sweep of Slade's gaze across the room, before he says, "You didn't come here just to threaten me. Say what you're going to, kid." He raises an eyebrow, and apparently the movement comes across even beneath his mask because Slade scoffs, arms crossing. "You're what, eighteen? Nineteen? I've got access to all the files on your group, and it's not hard to make a good guess at your age once you track how you grew into _this_. Talon losing a good foot and a half of height wasn't subtle if you were paying attention."

His smile widens, just a touch, as Slade studies him. "Paying attention to me?" he mocks, pushing off the dresser and letting his stride stay languid and loose as he circles further around the room. "I'm _flattered;_ you're not so bad yourself, Slade. You really pull off the hot-dad aspect of it all, gotta say."

"Not paying attention to you," Slade corrects. "To your group. I know you graduated to become Nightingale, I know Owlman took you in when you were a child, and I know that the second child he recruited _died_. Beaten to death, and neither of you managed to do anything about him. You left him there to—”

He reacts without thinking about it, drawing the blade from the sheath on his right thigh and _flinging_ it. Slade ducks with a speed just over human capability as the blade embeds itself in the wooden post where his throat was, and then reaches up, yanks it out, and _lunges_ for him. Dick sucks in a sharp breath, drawing his other obvious knife just in time to meet the swipe of his stolen one. Slade's momentum _slams_ him up against the wall, the crossed knives coming dangerously close to his throat as his breath is knocked from him.

He didn't fully appreciate how _big_ Slade is until that height and bulk is pressing him into the wall, both his hands forcibly locked into keeping the crossed blades away from his skin as he struggles to make enough room to slide out from underneath them. Slade is snarling and he twists to the side, just barely managing to slide out from under the blades and away from the wall to escape. Metal scrapes, and Slade's stolen blade carves a sharp gouge into the wall as the enhanced, former, special-ops soldier follows him. His mouth curls itself into a sharp smile as he dances backwards, deflecting where necessary as he catches his breath, considering options.

Bruce's strategies accounted for the possibility of Slade being violent, but he hasn't been an active soldier in _three years_ ; he's supposed to have lost a bit of his edge. In fact, he's not supposed to be this good (herding him towards a corner; fast and ruthless and utterly focused and it's been a long time since Dick felt _outclassed_ ) to begin with; Bruce looked into exactly what kind of training he received as part of the military, official or not, and it doesn't account for _this_.

He pulls a flash-pellet from his belt, flinging it to the ground between them and fluttering his eyes closed for that crucial second. He hears it goes off, opens his eyes again ready to press the advantage, and—

Slade's foot connects with his gut, and the force _flings_ him back into the wall with a _crack_. He chokes a breath as his feet hit the floor, bringing the blade up and fighting back the pain, the _nausea,_ to try and focus in time. He knocks aside a slash aimed at his chest, but then Slade's other hand is grabbing his arm, fingers digging into his elbow with enough pressure to make him hiss. His arm is forced straight against his chest, fingers spasming from the pain that spikes down the length of his forearm and makes him drop the blade purely on automatic.

He sucks in a breath, feeling the threatening bend of his arm being pressed almost beyond the limit of his flexibility, and then Slade's knife is pressed up underneath his chin, forcing his head back against the wall. A sharp sting warns him that the blade's split skin, and he forces himself mostly still. Quietly, while Slade snarls down at him, a knee knocking his apart to split them relatively harmlessly around Slade's larger legs, he pulls one of his hidden blades from where it's secreted away in the layer of armor over his forearm with his free hand.

"Keep very still," Slade growls, sliding that knife against his throat, "or I cut your throat, kid."

He bares his teeth in a smile, refusing to show how unsettled he is by how _wrong_ Bruce's estimate of this man was. Then he slides his smaller knife right in between Slade's legs, slicing through the fabric of his slacks and scratching a thin line into the sensitive, delicate skin of his inner thigh. The knife's more than long enough to reach the artery, if he just stabs in and _slices_ back out.

"Don't need to tell you what I'm threatening, do I?" he asks in a quiet breath, careful not to cut his own throat open.

Slade's gaze is dark, fixed on his mask. "Are you really willing to die for your master, boy? After he sent you in here after _me?_ "

The blade eases back just a fraction, enough that he can take a shallow breath and answer, "If you're calling me a slave you're a long ways off, Slade. I'm loyal because he _deserves_ it, and I'm here because if he came himself you would be _dead_ right now." He gives a slightly friendlier smile, twisting the point of his knife into Slade's thigh. "But go ahead, try and _turn me_. Gives me more time to imagine how the blood spraying out of your thigh is going to look."

"You've miscalculated, kid," Slade tells him, voice a low, not entirely unfamiliar sort of growl. "I heal fast. You'll die, I'll live, and I'll set the full might of the government on every single hint your master leaves behind."

"Maybe," he admits. "Or I drop the knife and you do the exact same thing. Let's be real, _Mr. President._ You cut my throat, and even if you live my 'master' slaughters your entire family, one by _one_." He laughs, feeling another sharp sting as the blade at his throat splits his skin a fraction. "You think you can keep them safe from him? Your wife, all the way across the country, and your _son_ , overseas on tour? Easy targets."

Slade pushes him harder into the wall, fingers digging harder into his elbow until he gives a tight sound of pain. "Threaten my family again," Slade hisses, "and I will _break your arm_."

He bares his teeth, smile failing him for a moment as he tries to deal with the ache without being able to move to lessen it. "Not a threat," he corrects, "just a fact." Then he takes in a small breath, drags as charming a smile as he can manage back onto his face, and says, "So that puts us in a standoff, hm? One of us is going to have to give, Slade; unless you want to just stand like this until morning. Or until someone comes looking for you. Do you think that will be your kids, or the Secret Service?"

The _crack_ of his elbow catches him by surprise, and he flinches before the pain actually hits him, taking his breath and dragging a short, sharp shout from his throat before he manages to strangle it down. He presses his head back against the wall, clenching his eyes shut behind the mask as he forces himself to breathe through the pain, to not jerk or struggle or accidentally let his still useful hand slice Slade's thigh open before he's ready for it to. Trying to move the hand of his now broken arm makes his breath catch, _hard_ , and tells him that he can make the fingers there flicker somewhat, though they've gone mostly numb.

Slade's grip on his arm shifts, and he can feel bone grind how it shouldn't, having to bite into his lip not to shout again. "I told you not to threaten my family," is the reminder, and he bares his teeth and pries his eyes open to meet the narrowed blue gaze staring down at him.

"I didn't _threaten_ ," he snaps, breathless. "You—”

Slade twists the knife against his throat, forcing him to turn his head and cut off. "An implied threat is still a threat, Nightingale. Now talk, quickly. Tell me what your master wants, so I can get around to denying it."

He hisses, then manages to say, "No demands. He doesn't _want_ anything from you; doesn't need it."

"Then why are you here?"

He gives a sharp smile, without even a hint of his usual attempt to make it more than a baring of teeth. "To make your position clear, Slade. Play your games, enjoy your _power,_ but remember that we can reach you and everyone you care about, and you'll never see us coming. Send soldiers into Gotham, or spies, or _agents_ , and they'll _die_. We're not interested in killing you for now, but we can tear your world apart just as easily. Keep out of our business."

Slade studies him for a few moments. "You invade my home, to tell me to stay out of yours?"

"We're not in the business of being _fair,_ " he points out, and then presses his knife a little harder against Slade's thigh. He can feel the faint give as it splits skin, even though Slade doesn't offer a reaction. "Stay out of Gotham, or we retaliate. Now let go," he bares his teeth again, and spits, "and _step back_."

Slade, slowly, releases his arm. It's an awful pain, but not an unfamiliar one, and he grits his teeth together and lowers it down to his side despite the ache.

The blade is still tight to his throat though, and he hisses upwards, narrowing his eyes behind the mask. "You first, Slade."

There's a long pause, a moment where Slade looks like he's considering cutting open his throat instead, before the knife slides away from his neck. Slade steps backwards, out of range of the knife that was held to his thigh, and Dick swallows to chase away the lingering memory of it and edges sideways to get out from between him and the wall. He just needs a little more room to maneuver so he can be safely out of range of Slade's longer arms and enhanced speed. He's not in the best of positions with his arm broken, but—

Slade _strikes,_ moving in a sudden coiled burst that he's just a little too slow to react to. He brings the knife up, tries to leap away, but a hard swat to his wrist efficiently knocks the blade from his hand, and Slade is already in his way. They collide, and before he can do more than bring a leg up and _try_ for a kick to knock him away Slade's hand is wrapped around his broken elbow and _twisting_.

His balance fails and he slams down to his knees, his shoulder twisting down to try and stop the pain, to try and get his arm away from the hand clenched around it. Then, before he can actually get away from it, Slade's other hand comes around the back of his neck and the blade presses tight against his jugular. All he can do is go still, breathing fast and sharp and wondering if he really is about to die here. (Bruce will never forgive himself, not so soon after Jason, not when it was lack of information that did this.)

"Let me make _your_ position clear, Nightingale," Slade growls, bent somewhat down over him. "If any of you touch my family, if I even get a _hint_ that you're planning it, I'll set every single resource I have against you. I will _hunt_ you all down to the ends of the Earth. And you can tell your master that I will not cooperate with him. If he sends you again, I'll make sure that you end up dead. Is that a clear enough answer for you?"

He very carefully draws a breath deep enough that he can say, "I'll pass it on."

The blade scrapes against his throat as its pulled back. "We'll see." He looks up, over his still-held broken arm, in time to see Slade flip open a cellphone and lift it to his ear. "Wintergreen, intruder. Lock the place down." His eyes widen behind the mask, as Slade lets go of his arm and lowers the cellphone to press its receiver against his shoulder. " _Run_ , kid. If you make it out of here, you can tell your boss what I said. Otherwise, I guess I'll be doing it myself."

He jerks to his feet, bolting for the door without another word. (No windows in this damn room; no exit points.) He holds his arm to his chest as he runs, keeping it mostly immobile as he gets out into the corridor and Luthor's security systems roar to life, finally recognizing him as an intruder. Oh, that's not good.

He activates his comms with a sharp tap — no point in staying silent now — and calls, "O, I need an extraction! _Now!"_

 _"Get outside if you can. What happened?"_ is the growled answer, thankfully immediately.

The flash of laser fire that forces him to bounce off a wall and roll over the shoulder of his injured arm stalls his answer, as do the two Secret Security members that he has to slide between and then bolt past, heading for the stairs.

"We missed something about Wilson," he manages, as he slams his way into the stairwell and heads upwards. "My arm's broken; he's not going to deal with us." The door slams open lower down, and he glances briefly that direction as he pulls out a couple smoke pellets and tosses them down. Just enough to obscure the air and make them wary to shoot. "I think I can make it to the roof, but I'll have company with me. See you soon, O."

_"See you soon, Nightingale."_


End file.
